Parked
by TorchwoodPride
Summary: A set of interim stories in no particular order while we wait for season 3. I am not an Arthur Conan Doyle buff, so all inconsistencies or errors are mine. I also respect all rights of the the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Steve Thompson and the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
1. Chapter 1 - Parked

"Hello John. How are you doing?"

"Ah for goodness sake, Mike! We were not a couple!" John replied.

"I'm not saying that you were." Mike Stamford backtracked at once.

John looked away. "So why meet here? 2 Cups from the Criterion Bar? This exact spot where we met for the first time in Donkeys' years? Aren't you the one being a tad sentimental?" John bit at him.

"You've even started to sound like him!"

"Yes, but I am not Sherlock, alright? If I was I would have figured this out long ago!"

Mike spoke insistently now. "John, when someone you know dies like that, it's bound to have an effect on you. That's why I asked you to meet me. And here is mainly because it's convenient for me." Mike shook his head then continued. "John, I know enough about you to know that you don't let yourself be taken in easily. You can be a very unobtrusive presence, and that's always been your forte as a doctor. That the patient forgets you're there and stops lying."

John heard that, but didn't quite hear it.

"It's a very attractive quality, because it acts as a catalyst. And it's rare, John. Don't let go of it!" Mike insisted.

John leant back on the garden bench now, trying to think. Sherlock had said something quite like it, once.

"How do I do that?" He asked.

"Mainly you're just there." Mike replied. "John, it's akin to naivety, but it really has no bearing on it. It's that you look at things without prejudging them. Most people don't really see things, they see the concept, or what they expect to see. They don't really look, and so they don't really see. Sherlock probably saw everything, and had a mind able to take it all in and classify it accordingly. And then sort his impressions and make deductions. Takes a good mind to do even half of that! And then a hell of a lot of training to accomplish the last. But for someone to become the catalyst to that mind, that's quite an achievement!"

"Alright. I accept the compliment." John replied and finally accepted one of he cups of coffee Mike had been holding throughout.

Mike Stamford smiled and toasted him and they sipped.

"John, tell me, do you believe he's still alive?"

John looked away, then back again. "I don't know what I think. Just not that he committed suicide, for all I watched him do it."

* * *

John's mind shifted gear, to his internal place, and the monologue that ran all the time there, now Sherlock was gone.

What is it that makes us select one another? What is it that makes being seen by another human so very powerful, you're impelled to strive for that vision, that thing they saw in you, whether you know what it was or no? What is that power to see, to recognize, and to kindle that trust in people, that they will willingly follow you? That because you've shown them trust, then they'll return that trust, even unto loyalty, even unto death?

John felt the thoughts hitting him like fat drops of pelting rain, but one at a time.

* * *

He finally looked at Mike and saw pale neutral eyes appraising him.

"Let me ask you exactly what you're trashing out here, John." Mike had waited until he had John Watson's attention again. "Survivor's guilt? Or are you trying to out-deduce Sherlock Holmes? Because, if it's the latter, and he did outwit his opponent and is still alive, you might be putting his life at risk by proving _how_ he did it!"

John sat back, his jaw dropped open, then he closed it and glared at Stamford.

"Are you warning me off?"  
"I'm telling you that what you're facing is the nightmare of any war-widow. The not knowing. And that you may have very little choice but to endure it!"

John stared at the park but didn't see any of it. Didn't even want to see any of it.

"Look you came back from Afghanistan shot up with a psychosomatic limp, which disappeared around Sherlock. That tells me your PTSD was much more a case of severe under-stress. Now that you've added real PTSD on top of it, it's no wonder you're shaking apart." Mike told him from his end of the bench.

"That also tells me that Sherlock saw something in you. Even if you don't know what it was, it made you come alive again! It gave you a purpose, and your life had meaning again! And that is a huge gift!" Mike insisted. "You have to hold on to that gift, John. Whatever you make of your life, remember, that you were seen once too."

"Are you paraphrasing Shakespeare at me?" John derided.

"I suppose I am. But even if Sherlock Holmes was everything he said he was, and everything you believed him to be, you're still stuck within the war-widow's dilemma. And you can't stay there! John, you have to move on. You have to allow yourself trust again. You have to become what you can be, while remembering that he saw you!"

"So what are you offering me? The worst thing possible: Hope?" John replied bitterly.

* * *

John had seen so much destruction in the war. So much loss of limbs, of futures, of hopes, so much death, that he could not cope with the gain of his return home to the peace of London. Until Sherlock had seen him. Had seen something in him, had recognized some quality in him that made him go: I want this one for a friend, for a companion, for someone I can stand to share my flat with. For it hadn't just been a 'he'll do' it had been something else. Something in the myriad of information in Sherlock's mind had settled on a shape that would fit. And somehow Sherlock had recognized that shape in John, and had latched on to him, recognized him, and brought him back to life.

John was tired of feeling dead again, of feeling half useful only. He was tired of waiting for something that logic told him would never happen, and tired of hoping for the impossible to happen anyway, because, however you looked it, this was Sherlock Holmes! Come on! Jumping off a six story building onto a concrete slab pavement and survive it? Piece of cake!

* * *

John stared at his coffee cup, not drinking from it, just using it and the people around him for an alibi.

Stamford spoke up again. "Now, I can tell you one thing. If you do discover that Sherlock is alive, you can't let on."

John stared at him. But Mike Stamford wasn't even looking at him and just forged on.

"So what you need to ask yourself is whether you can creditably do that? If not, you're better off not looking for answers. You're better off pretending you've looked enough, and that you've reached an impasse. That you're satisfied, sort of, with the answers you've got."

"As the best way to protect him. If he's still out there, still alive." John Watson replied.

"Yes. But you also have to ask yourself how to best protect yourself, how to protect John Watson. How bad is this for you?" Mike asked him.

"It's bad." John admitted, finally. "Thank you for asking."

"I'm glad I could help, if only a little."

John rose, and limped a few steps, then stopped and turned to look back down at his acquaintance. Mike Stamford hadn't moved at all. His whole body stance suggested an openness to continuing this conversation that John had long learnt to recognize in his psychiatrists.

"But how did he do it?" John asked, testing the man. If Sherlock was alive, figuring out the why wouldn't be simple, and he had already tried. Why was he being pushed in that direction? "If Sherlock did survive, however he did it, he didn't want anyone to know! Why do you want to know?"

"I don't." Mike Stamford replied. "Trying to figure out the 'how' is what's tearing you apart. So try a different angle, John. Work with what you've got."

"And what is that, exactly?" John asked, reverting to character, polite standing back from the problem.

"You knew him. You liked him. Maybe you can figure out the why?" Mike asked.

"Why he would commit suicide right in front of me?" John asked bitterly. "He waited for me. He knew I'd come."  
"So he wanted you there." Stamford confirmed it.

"Yeah. To see his downfall." John was bitter now.

"Alright, so let's be logical. I'm sure you've been over this, but let's take it one more time: Why would he kill himself in front of his best friend? Either, he didn't care what that would do to you. Or else he needed you there for some other reason. An overriding one. Or, he believed your trust in him was strong enough that you would not believe his death even if you saw it with your own eyes. And he was partly right, wasn't he? If you believed he was just bastard enough to need you for his final audience, then you'd have long moved on! You'd have mourned the friendship you thought you had, hated the man, and moved on. But you haven't, because your instinct tells you still to trust the man! John, why would he want you there?" Stamford asked.

John walked about again, limping. But he didn't go far. He found himself returning to the bench, to the questions being asked. Because so much of his life was just walking in circles now, ever decreasing in size, while his life had been put on hold.

Stamford waited until he was within comfortable speaking range again, then spoke quietly. "Look, either Sherlock was a fraud, and he did kill himself. Or else he did a stunt that fooled everybody. You have had a long time to figure it out, and you haven't. So go back to Sherlock's reason for doing whatever he did."

"He killed himself!"

"Ask the next question." Mike insisted like any good scientist. "Why would Sherlock Holmes kill himself? You obviously don't believe the fraud theory. So what could make the man you knew, and obviously liked, kill himself or pretend to kill himself?"

"You're saying... Find out why he did it?"

Stamford paused for half a breath. "If nothing else, knowing the why, any probable why of his action, should help you to sleep at night."

John looked down at the gravel of the path.

"You're good."

John was really looking at Mike Stamford, now. Thinking.

"I can't deduce why Sherlock did what he did." John replied.

"Can't you? John, when you were in Afghanistan you learnt to trust your instincts. Instincts have kept humankind alive for longer than reasoning. Your instincts told you to trust Sherlock Holmes. If you are to trust them still, you are also in a sense still trusting him. Because he trusted you: Sherlock Holmes let you in to his life, he let you close. And he didn't have many people close to him."

John still wasn't speaking.

"What would make Sherlock do something so desperate as to risk his own life, even to the point of throwing it and his reputation away like that?" Mike Stamford stated the question that John knew had been hanging on the edge of his mental horizon for far too long. John was breathing hard now. He started to walk around the bench again. His limp wasn't visible as he walked on to the grass behind the bench.

"You're saying that he had a reason?" John asked, testing the waters.

"No, you're saying that. Based on your knowledge of him." Stamford pointed out to him.

"But..." John stopped his pacing and stared at Mike Stamford's rotund body. "Why?"

"It's a better question than 'how', don't you think?" Stamford asked him kindly. John looked away.

"John, I never knew him like you did. I can't even begin to imagine a why. But maybe you can. And in that I hope you can find a measure of peace."

John watched as Mike Stamford looked at his watch, got up apologetically, dumped his coffee cup, and with a sympathetic smile headed out of the garden back towards Barts.

John went back to the abandoned bench. Here he sat staring into the garden without seeing it. Much more focused and not nervous any longer. When he lefta while later he walked down the street without limping.

* * *

Mycroft's car pulled up beside him keeping pace.

"How are you doing?"

"What?" John asked. Not feeling like being particularly gracious towards Sherlock's brother. But not at all surprised at being contacted by him either.

"How did your friend find you?" Mycroft asked on. "What did you talk about?"  
"My problems. Not his!" John replied, then waited for the car to stop before grabbing for the handleto get in. Mycroft locked the doors.

"Look. I know this is hard for you."  
"Yes it is Mycroft. It's very hard for me not to kick in the face of the man who sold out his brother to the one man in the world who could successfully drive him to suicide!" John barked right back at him! And then he walked away_._

Mycroft's car pulled away speeding up, then came to a stop nearly at the corner and Mycroft got out right in front of John.

"What did he tell you, Doctor Watson?"

"Nothing. He just made me think."

"About what?"

"You asking me a question? I thought us ordinary people bored you. But before you go, I actually do have a question for you. Why do you even care?"

There was no answer.

"Because you think your pest of a kid brother might actually have been smart enough to pull it off? Stage his own suicide right in front of his best friend? And why would he do that, unless he thought I would keep believing in him, as indeed I do? Would Sherlock Holmes be surprised to find that you believe in him, too?"

"Aren't you worried that you're imposing your own standards on Sherlock?"

"No. I'm not. Because Sherlock knew me, Mycrof. Like you never will! With all my limitations, he knew me. Knew that even if I'll never figure out the how or even why he did it, I know that he had a damned good reason."

Mycroft didn't answer.

And John Watson kept walking, forwards.


	2. Chapter 2 - Pieces

Although Sherlock had never asked the details, he knew his friend still had nightmares about Afghanistan. Not as many as at first, John would usually sleep through the night now. But he still had them. Although never after they had closed a stressful case. Those were the nights where John would sleep, long and deep, and peacefully.

Just as he had after that incident at the swimming pool. Lestrade had been convinced neither of them would sleep a wink, having been that close to destruction. But Sherlock had known otherwise, and John had confirmed it by eating dinner, then calling it a night, and going to bed. John had woken late the next morning, had his morning coffee, and asked what next. Sherlock hadn't enlightened him. He had spent the night trying to figure out why they were still alive, and what Moriarty had wanted with him in the first place. Other than to play a game that had obviously amused both of them.

Moriarty's threat that Sherlock wasn't to be allowed to continue was not one Sherlock took lightly. He didn't think John did either. As evinced by the fact that John's hands had showed signs of weapon's oil over the next few hours, as a result of John retreating to his room, to clean out his gun. John wasn't fooled by the calm following that storm.

And Sherlock knew there would be another confrontation. Maybe based on that call that had so fortuitously interrupted their execution.

Sherlock had also had to expend time and energy on analysing himself, something he was never comfortable doing. So the case they had been set on by Mycroft had proved a nice distraction. Except that had been Moriarty's plan as well, not leaving Sherlock the time to fully analyse his own reactions to seeing John by the swimming pool, where he had hoped to meet with Moriarty. His own reaction for that tiny fragment of time when he had thought that John was Moriarty. Now, it seemed inconceivable, and yet at the time he had thought what he had.

The elements were shortly all there, in his mind, stored in the mind-palace room that was labelled John Hamish Watson, which had threads and connections to so many other things. It had astonished him the first time he really looked at what he knew about John, how much of his mind palace had threads to John. How John's ability to see things differently, react differently, in a standard neurotypical way, and yet without prejudice, had laid out a spider-web pattern inside Sherlock's mind palace, that ran counter to much of it's logical structure.

Sherlock picked up the most precious commodities in the room he had set aside for the study of John Watson, and brought them to his own room, where he mentally rested for a long while, before determining that yes, it could be done, if it had to be done. His brother was right that caring was not an advantage. But now that Sherlock faced that he did care, he also knew that not to care would to be a huge step backwards for him. A step back to an existence without John in it, was something he no longer wanted.

He settled his understanding of John's friendship, John's willingness to believe in his own senses, John's trust in him and in Sherlock's abilities, and John's limited knowledge of how Sherlock thought, and what Sherlock was prepared to do if he deemed it necessary.

That naïvety was something Mycroft laughed about, but Sherlock had come to value. It wasn't stupidity, it was on the contrary a straightforward attempt to deal with things as presented, by the powers of mind and deduction that John Watson did possess. Powers that were expanding as he ran alongside Sherlock, as they danced with problems, and lately, with death.

Sherlock set the things he would need where he would need them, to continue to consider his problem, but he also recognized that the outcome was likely to require sacrifice. He just didn't know of how many or even whom.

The visit from a terrified young man brought them out of London, on a case that was startling and strange. But Sherlock wanted to do something unpredictable, and he needed to test John's trust in him. And this offered the perfect solution. Laboratory conditions he had joked, and John had just shaken his head and laughed. As if it was all an elaborate prank Sherlock had played him, rather than John having been used as a human lab rat, in an experiment that hadn't produced the expected answers after all.

Mycroft, of course, had been invaluable. Anything that got them out of London, and so much less likely to cross Moriarty or his minions, that had been a relief to the older Holmes. Sherlock has known as much, had figured as much, and having solved the case, returned to London and to the knowledge that his understanding of John was as complete as it needed to be. John could take it, if need be. And John probably would have to.

Sherlock returned to his reclining position against the lab counter and thought through everyone else. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly. Aye, Molly. He had known from the start that he would need her, and he wondered if she could be relied on. He had never encouraged her feelings for him, yet they had occurred. He walked through his back history with her, what he hadn't already deleted, leaving just the conclusions, not the evidence itself. Molly. And the homeless network. He would need to rely on them both when shove came to push. And he would need to make a last convincing phone call. He knew what Moriarty wanted now, and Sherlock would make his play, slowly, only 'discovering' the man's plan along the way. The main clue would be if Moriarty used the term 'boring'.

There was just one rub. He knew Moriarty had made people believe he had left the computer code in the Baker Street flat, but Sherlock knew he hadn't. He needed that final piece to his puzzle. He needed to see John one last time, to know where he was, to be able to direct him on the gaming board.

John obliged, showed up, and helped him solve the puzzle within minutes. Then he settled at one of the work benches and collapsed into a heap to sleep. Sherlock knew the time table for this, and so he simply waited. When the phone call came to John's phone that Mrs Hudson had been attacked, Sherlock knew it was time. He sent John away without letting him see that his own heart had flipped once, not so much at the thought that Mrs Hudson might be in danger, because he already knew that she was. Most likely one of he snipers had a bullet named for her, and a gun trained on her already. But John would return to Baker Street, and only come straight back when he found her okay, realising something was wrong, and that was all the time Sherlock needed. And all the confirmation too, that Moriarty wouldn't just kill them all out of hand.

Having received Moriarty's text Sherlock settled his coat around him with a last shrug, and went up to the roof to meet with him.

He played the man, letting him think Sherlock stupider than he was, but he was still genuinely shocked when Moriarty managed to use the gun on himself. The blood was convincing, and Sherlock had to play into it, knowing that someone, probably up in one of those cranes, was watching him, a gun kept on his head, in case he bent down to check on Moriarty. Who would never have come up here without back-up. And Moriarty would have installed recorders, just in case he wasn't still awake to listen to Sherlock's goodbye not directly.

Sherlock would have to play his part as cast by Moriarty. But he could leave a quaver in his voice to clue in John about when he was lying, and even, he hoped, mention the magician's trick. He hoped it would be enough. But Sherlock knew that for John the result of combining what he had seen with his own eyes with what he had heard with his own ears, would leave John prejudiced the same way as almost everyone else: in favour of what he had seen rather than what he had heard. But Sherlock also knew John's dogged resistance. John's knew his belief in Sherlock. And he hoped that Moriarty wouldn't catch the clues soon enough to actually be able to do something about them. Sherlock had to hope that his trick worked, and that his death and the destruction of his fame would be enough to satisfy Moriarty. He lifted his hands to his head in a sign of confusion and surrender as he walked to the edge of the building, knowing that right now those trained assassins were just waiting for one thing. That he jumped off the building's edge.

And there, right on time came a cab with John in it. He picked up his mobile phone and speed dialled him.

"Hello?"

"John." He said it neutrally.

"Hi Sherlock. Are you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

"I'm coming in."  
"Just do as I ask." Sherlock let his emotion convey his urgency. He saw John slow to a halt, trusting him still, but not enough to move back where Sherlock needed him to be. He added an emotional "Please."

"Where?" John had marched back as he had come, as ordered.

"Stop there."  
"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the roof top."

"Oh god!"

"I – I – I can't come down we, we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock allowed a weary emotion to creep into his voice. He needed Moriarty to hear that, not John. Well, John too, obviously. But he had to trust John to know better. And only realise it eventually.

John was stress breathing now. "What's going on?"

"An apology." Sherlock had thought long about his words for this final call. "It's all true." He spaced his words to underscore the lie he was speaking.

"What?" The pure disbelief in John's voice was sweet, but irrelevant to the situation.

"Everything they said about me." Sherlock continued unabated, same tone of voice. But then he spaced his words again for the next bit. "I invented Moriarty." He spared a glance at the man still lying prone on the roof top, still either playing dead, or being dead. Sherlock didn't care either way. John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, those were his priorities now, and that Molly and the homeless network did their job.

He could tell from John's movement pattern that he was getting through to his emotional side now, that John was beginning to suspect. But loyal as ever, he was still seeking clarification.

"Why are you saying this?" John asked, and Sherlock turned away from his half smile at Moriarty to declare with as much play-acting in his voice and face as he could, "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock!" It was John's half frustrated half annoyed voice when he'd done something that irked the Doctor. Not yet something to alarm him, although there was a hint of that creeping through as well.

Sherlock needed to keep playing his role and made his voice even more tremulous: "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up Sherlock, shut up!" John told him, getting that there was duress involved, and yet not certain of it. He sought confirmation. "The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"  
"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock told him, lying with pride at his friend's belief in him and letting that warmth be heard in his voice.

"You could." John's unswerving faith startled a laugh from Sherlock. Once more John had astonished him. He had to take a moment to let it stand.

"I researched you." Sherlock lied. Although he had, of course, researched John Watson, found his empty blog and added that to his mind palace. One of the first items in there apart from his personal experience of the man. "Before we met I discovered – everything that I could to impress you." He had added the pause, and now added a snivel. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." He let his voice slide down to his deeper level at that last bit, hoping it would stand out in John's mind, later, when he discounted the evidence of his eyes, in favour of that of his ears.

"No. Alright, stop it now!" John replied and marched forward again.

"No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock commanded with a slight sharp tone of voice to him again. John must be seen to believe this, the view from the crane provided enough of the street that they would see John. His reaction had to be authentic. "Don't move." Sherlock enforced it.

"Alright," John conceded as Sherlock had known he mostly would. By using the emotional tone of his voice, he had manipulated John to stand exactly where he wanted him.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock commanded, allowing that emotion to remain in his voice. After all, he was taking a gamble here. They might all still die. But he had to make the attempt! "Please, will you do this for me?" He asked, knowing his stress could be heard, but hoping that his words would be heard too, and the truthful apology in them for the pain he would cause his friend.

"Do what?" John was puzzled.

"This phone call, it's eh, it's my note." Sherlock told him then let his voice drop down again. "What people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

He saw John nearly drop the connection. "Leave a note when?" He demanded.

"Goodbye John."  
"No!" It was said with the utter certainly of conviction, "Don't."

Sherlock found it hard to end this conversation, but he had to. He had spoken his last line. He dropped the phone on the roof beside him, and John realised.

"SHERLOCK!" The name shouted out loud. John was about to move. There was no more time. Sherlock took a second to centre himself, then spread out his arms, and let himself topple off the building. Whatever happened now, must be what played out.


End file.
